Kaaluru Kronicles: An Introduction

On the way to Mysuru from Bengaluru, around thirty kilometers before Mysuru, on a nondescript board was written in English and Kannada “Kaaluru” with an arrow pointing left. The distance was written below the arrow – twenty-five kilometers. The board stood next to a banyan tree, comfortably in its shade. Buses that ran on the highway stopped here and people who wanted to go to Kaaluru boarded the private bus that started from the banyan tree. There was no government bus to Kaaluru and all the private buses were owned by the son of a former village accountant. Some smelt a scam. It was said, although in hushed tones, that a few years ago, the government had taken unusual interest in introducing government buses on the Kaaluru-Highway line. Then, the owner of these buses had lobbied with the MLAs from Mandya & Mysuru to get the plan stopped midway. He had spent lakhs on getting this project scrapped, it was believed. Nobody knew how he had earned so much money, because not many people travelled to Kaaluru and the population of Kaaluru itself was a few thousand at the maximum. People spoke of unauthorized bars he operated in Bengaluru, with a famous politician for a god-father. Nobody knew for sure, though.

In Kannada, “kaalu” has dual connotations – one is “leg” and the other “quarter of a whole”. “Ooru” could mean any inhabited place like a village or a town or a metropolis. The origin of the name “Kaaluru” was rooted in a legend, some learned folk said. When Goddess Chamundeshwari slayed Mahishasura (after whom Mysuru is named), his legs fell where the town stood today, giving rise to its name. Some “new-age rationalists”, the youth mainly, had an entirely different theory. According to them, while administration was run from Mysuru by the royalty, Kaaluru was very significant. Since it was nearly a quarter of the distance between Mysuru and Bengaluru (two big cities of the erstwhile Mysore state) it came to be known as Kaaluru or the “town which is one-fourth” the distance. The old guard, who could not tolerate such blasphemy (of disowning the puranic origins of their town), had a counter-argument ready - if the town was significant as recently as around seventy years ago, why was there not even something as elementary as government bus service?!

The entrance to Kaaluru was shaped like an entrance of a fort. It was mentioned in the footnotes of some history books as the Kaaluru Fort, although some believed it to be just an abandoned extension of the Srirangapatna (famous for Tipu Sultan’s summer palace) Fort. It was a small town, with just one main road running from the entrance of the fort to the end of the town, which ended on the banks of river Kaveri. It was called the M.G. Road. According to those who lived long enough after the freedom struggle to tell the tale, the Mahatma was supposed to visit Kaaluru after visiting Srirangapatna & Mysore. Local Congress workers along with the Headman, accountant and priest had gathered enough man-power to lay a new road to welcome the Mahatma. They said Gandhi was to arrive on February 2^nd. News broke out on January 30^th that “the light had gone out”, plunging the nation into darkness. Even in his death, Gandhi had given Kaaluru a lesson in self-reliance and self-sufficiency – they had built the road themselves, without government interference. The Mahatma had always wanted decentralization, that the village should be the unit of governance. Ironically, he did not live long enough to see this village realize his dreams. [Gandhi’s secretary never recollected any mention of a plan visit to Mysore, let alone Kaaluru, though!] 

An old, abandoned temple of Lord Vishnu lay on the banks of Kaveri. According to some, the temple was part of the town centuries ago which was abandoned when there was a huge flood and people were forced to move higher up, where the town now stood. Nobody built a temple for Vishnu on the outskirts of a village or town, they argued. The responsibility of protecting the village was traditionally left to Lord Hanuman. During every election, whenever the sitting MLA visited Kaaluru, people petitioned him to declare the abandoned temple as a monument. The leader would listen to them sincerely and promise to do his best. However, he would return to the town only during the next election, to receive similar petitions. A mantap belonging to the abandoned temple lay with its steps submerged in the river. People did not dare to venture near the temple or the mantap alone in the night. Voices were heard from the temple and figures were seen moving around the mantap, they said. In fact, mothers frequently invoked the ghosts of the mantap and the abandoned temple to ensure their children listened to them.

The railway line ran along the banks of river Kaveri. However, not many trains stopped at Kaaluru. The station itself was very small. It had only one platform with a couple of benches. There was also a small shop which sold tea, biscuits and juices of different colours. The owner supplemented his meagre income by being the sole newspaper agent for the whole of Kaaluru. The Mysuru-Bengaluru passenger train stopped regularly in the mornings. He had an arrangement with the drivers on the route and they would deliver the newspapers from Mysuru. The whistle of the train leaving Kaaluru served as an alarm to the people. Other trains stopped only if there was traffic at subsequent junctions. The platform was used by the idlers of Kaaluru and the surrounding villages for playing cards. In fact, they provided more business to the shop than all the passengers from the train could provide in a week!

A little distance away from the railway station stood a banyan tree, with its shade spreading across the road. The stone platform around the tree was used as a bus-stop and buses to the highway started from here. The entrance to Kaaluru Government Primary & High School stood beside the stone platform. The school itself consisted of three single-storied buildings with huge grounds in the middle. Every year, during Independence Day, Republic Day and Gandhi Jayanti, the entire town gathered there for celebrations. The school had four teachers for around a hundred students from class one to class ten. For education beyond school, they went to Srirangapatna. Fellows who were a little more ambitious went to Mysuru and only those who could afford it dared to even dream about Bengaluru!

Welcome to Kaaluru!

The Haircut

I hail from a semi-orthodox, middle-class Brahmin family in Bengaluru. My parents settled in Bengaluru – Bangalore as it was called until recently – in their late 20s and thus, I am a first generation Banglorean – born and brought up solely in Bengaluru. While one may wonder what significance the above details have, let me assure you – there is a lot of difference in being a Brahmin in a city and in a rural setting. (For starters, a Brahmin in the village is, often, respected for simply being born a Brahmin, if not anything else. That is not the case in a city, at least not publicly.)

Being born into a Brahmin family means that you are bound to follow some customs and observe some rituals. This increases manifold if you have orthodox grandparents living with you. My grandmother was one such woman. She was very finicky about certain issues – you had to bathe before you entered the kitchen; you could not place the plates on your lap while you ate; if you held the plate in your left hand, you could not touch anything else until you washed your left hand; after meals, dishes could not be placed in the same sink where gods’ idols were washed; if you came from a hospital/clinic, you had to bathe and change before you touched anything in the household – the list goes on. Not that I hold anything against her – she died around fourteen years ago – but in hindsight, I find her being finicky amusing. The only thing that probably came out of all this is that my dad and his two brothers know nothing about day-to-day stuff in the kitchen as they were restricted from entering it. (It is a matter often discussed by my mother and aunts – how hopeless their husbands are in these matters!). They do not care much about cleanliness either (probably arising out of a sense of rebellion!).

Years have passed and the ‘rationalist’ in me tries to find reason in all those restrictions. Some of them have become so deeply ingrained that they almost seem second-nature to me. I do not find it amusing when I see my cousins eating with plates on their laps or eating with both hands! What my grandmother imposed were rooted in cleanliness (though she considered any violation of them sacrilege!).

One such rule – which is still practiced in almost all Brahmin households – is that once you return from a saloon, you do not touch any household object or any person until you are “purified” by a bath. If you touch, that object/person needs to be “purified” as well!

A visit to the saloon by a male member in a household, hence, is a carefully planned event. Any day of the week is suited for a haircut except for Tuesday (saloons usually remain closed that day), Thursday (it is holy in its own right), Friday (it is the day Goddess Lakshmi visits the house) and Saturday (you do not dare offend Shani!). Monday is ruled out, that being the first day of the week and hence, busy. Wednesday is mid-week – if you did not care for a haircut on Monday, why care now? So, that leaves just one day – Sunday.

If you go to the saloon early in the morning, a bucket is filled with hot water even before you leave, so that the geyser can heat another bucket of water by the time you return. If you go late, the first bucket is filled after you leave, as there is anyway enough time to heat a second. The younger ones in the family are allowed to sleep late on such days because if they wake up, chances are that they would occupy the bathroom when you return from the saloon, causing you to wait. The more you wait, more chances that you might accidentally touch something or somebody! By the time you return, a ‘green-corridor’ is created from the door to the bathroom. All doormats, foot rugs, carpets, furniture are moved out of your way. You empty your pockets and drop the contents onto the table or sofa from a height - without coming in contact with them. Once in the bathroom, you strip to your inners and your mother pours the first two or three mugs of water on you, “purifying” you! You touch the bucket only after that.

I once asked my mother about why such an elaborate ritual had to be followed – my friends (non-Brahmins, of course!) turned up in school or college directly from the saloon (with hair sticking onto their shirts, though). My mother, a ‘rationalist’ in her own right, explained: a bath is necessary on returning from the saloon, not because it belongs to a person of another caste but because hair sticks to your body and you need to clean it. (What if a person visits a high-class saloon – the ones which charge in hundreds for a simple haircut – where they take care not to let any bit of hair fall on to your shirt or stick to your body?!)

I now stay in a hostel and I obviously cannot expect anybody else to assist in my “purification” bath here. I have devised my own way of circumventing this issue. Before I visit the saloon, I make sure that I keep my clothes, shampoo and bucket separate from the rest of my belongings so that I can take them to the bathroom, without coming in contact with anything else – I do not like hair sticking to my chair, bed or cupboard! I, sometimes, do not even take my cell phone along (I cannot wash it). If Grandmother is watching all this from up there, she would, no doubt, be very happy!

Yours Whimsically...

December 30^th. It was around eleven-thirty in the night. I was finding it difficult to fall asleep. ‘Maybe I ate a little too much. That uneasiness is not letting me sleep’ was the first explanation that occurred. Possible. ‘If I browse through facebook a little while, maybe I will fall asleep.’ Brilliant! I took my phone and started browsing through the flood of statues, shares, selfies – with pouts & new hairstyles, hashtags - #goodbye2015, #newyearplans, #bff, updated DPs. It took quite a while before I saw one on New Year Resolutions of celebrities. Some resolved to spend more time with family; some resolved to maintain that elusive “work-life balance”. Too predictable!

Having browsed quite a lot, I finally decided to fall asleep. Sleep eluded me still. I realized that I was hungry too! ‘Oh! So, this was the reason why I couldn’t sleep.’ Too lazy to go to the kitchen, I thought ‘Maybe if I think about something deeply, I shall fall asleep during the thought process.’ Fantastic! ‘What do I think about?’ was the next question. The answer was already there – New Year resolutions. New Year was just a day away and it wouldn’t do any harm to come up with a resolution that I could share on facebook and twitter. (Sticking to it is an entirely different discussion altogether!)

Where do I begin? For starters, I couldn’t resolve to spend more time with family because I stay in a hostel. Nor could I resolve for “work-life balance” simply because I don’t work! Celebrities out of the window, I had to come up with something more original.

‘I could resolve to use swear words less frequently, perhaps.’ Yes. That would do. Around two years earlier, when I had just joined the hostel, I remember having told, lectured rather, a couple of friends on why one shouldn’t use swear words. “It devalues your words” I had said, without forgetting to add “People will not respect what you say. They will not respect you as a person.” Just a semester later, they found that my vocabulary had been enriched by a word or two, much to my embarrassment! I couldn’t help it, though. The environment around me had forced that change in me (at least, that is how I justified it to myself). Now on, I would make a conscious effort to keep it in check – as my New Year resolution.

Out of the blue, my phone buzzed – quite badly, much to the displeasure of my brother who was asleep. One of my friends had texted saying he would probably not be able to meet before I returned to the hostel. “S**t!” I said out loud and silently, cursed a little more. Well, giving up swear words was not my cup of tea, perhaps. I decided to find another one – easier to keep.

‘I could resolve to maintain my journal daily’ I thought. Doable, it seemed. But then, there were days (& nights) when conversations with friends would stretch upto three or four in the morning. If I decided to write my journal and then sleep, I would spend the rest of the next day sleeping! Not practical; rejected.

‘How about resolving to regularly update my blog? Say, one post a month.’ Nice. That way, there would be 12 posts a year. After a couple of years, there would be two dozen. Combine a few of my previous posts and I could get it printed! What a feeling that would be – to see my name in print on a book of my own! There would probably be a short interview by one of the newspapers – on the success of the book, on how I started writing. The school I studied in would invite me as a guest to one of its events. That would be a moment to remember!

I then remembered that I had made a similar resolution the previous year. And what a colossal failure it turned out to be! I couldn’t even make half-a-dozen posts. That realization brought me back to earth. I was no longer on stage as a guest in my school; I was in bed, thinking hard to come up with a practical New Year resolution. 

All that thinking had made me hungrier. ‘I need to get up early and have breakfast.’ That’s it! Breakfast was the answer. All those late-night movies, conversations and studying (sometimes) caused me to wake up late and I missed breakfast quite often in the hostel. This New Year would change all that. I would get up early every day and have breakfast – the “most important meal” of the day! Three good meals a day would help me put on some weight which I had lost due to skipping breakfast. I would go to the gym as well, as I had discussed with one of my friends. Regular work-out and proper food habits would shape my body. I wouldn’t be surprised if I found a “muscular-me” in the mirror, probably within the semester.

The chain of thoughts went on and I never realized when I fell asleep. The ploy had worked. More importantly, I had a practical New Year resolution (though not “cool” enough for public display).

3 days into the New Year...I had been successful in missing breakfast on all three days! 

Agreeing to Disagree...

Social media and news networks have been abuzz over the past couple of days with discussions & debates about Aamir Khan’s statement. Facebook, WhatsApp, Twitter and the like have been awash with posts and messages of Aamir haters, some going to the extent of saying “PK = Pack up with Kiran”! People who hero-worshipped Aamir until a couple of days ago have turned down-right haters, some just going with the flow, not even bothering to find out why they are sloganeering against him.

What is it on Aamir’s part that has earned the ire of millions across the country? Aamir made a statement where he said that his wife feels scared to open the newspapers every day and had asked him whether they should leave the country, fearing for the future of their children. No sooner had these words been spoken, media took it upon themselves to give the statement “much needed” publicity by replaying the statement over and over again. And here we are!

“Madness, as you know, is a lot like gravity. All you need is a little push.”

Media provided that much needed push. Patriots, intellectuals & patriot intellectuals pounced upon Aamir in an instant. While Aamir never mentioned any political party when he said there has been an increasing sense of intolerance, supporters of BJP took to painting it as an anti-Modi, anti-BJP jibe, some channels even running hashtags like #AamirVsModi. The remark was made on how we as a people (people as a mass) are becoming intolerant. A statement which was intended to lead us to introspect took political colours.

Hearing some of the arguments and comments that have been made against Aamir, I felt we are being unfair to him and decided to counter these arguments. Not that Aamir will read this anytime! However, I feel that we as a people need to be sensible and sensitive to things happening around us and I shall try to keep this as non-political as possible.

Argument #1: ‘What insecurity does Aamir Khan feel in this country where his movies are widely watched? As a national icon, his statement tarnishes India’s image, more so because he is the ambassador of the Incredible India campaign.’

Argument #2: ‘His wife made a statement about leaving the country fearing the safety of her kids while the widow of Col. Mahadik said that she would enroll her children into the army to serve the country. A social figure like him has to stay in the country to change the country. Why did they not make such statements when Mumbai was under siege during 26/11 or ’93 or the like?’

Argument #3: ‘Aamir’s movie PK ran successfully in our country because we are tolerant. He wouldn’t dream of doing such a movie in either Pakistan or Bangladesh. The fact that we are debating on this issue shows we are a tolerant nation.’

Argument #4: ‘What were the artists and intellectuals doing when anti-Sikh riots broke out in 1984? Why are they protesting only under the present government?’

The list would go on but for the moment, let us consider these.

The point where those who are hounding Aamir went wrong is by taking the statement at face value. They interpreted it word-to-word, not bothering to understand the depth of the statement. It would be foolish to think that Aamir or his wife actually think of relocating to another country.

The statement that Kiran Rao fears for her kids does not mean that she fears that they might be attacked because of their religion. It indicates a deeper fear of the kind of society that she thinks her kids are growing up into – a society where we no longer agree to disagree; a society where any dissent is suppressed and differences of opinion are not respected. While we need to salute the spirit of Col. Mahadik’s widow, it is not apt to compare the two statements.

Col. Mahadik is a martyr who laid down his life fighting terrorist outfits. Terrorism is an evil that is forced upon the country by external outfits. Aamir’s statements talk of the destruction of the social fabric within the country. While all of us across the country feared for our safety in the wake of 26/11 and the like, loss of social cohesiveness within the country is a cause of alarm. It is only too ridiculous to place the two statements at the same level! 

Arguments about his movie PK are shallow and blinded by a spirit of fanaticism. The movie is not disrespectful towards any religion. It ridicules organized religion and self-proclaimed god men. PK speaks of the futility of blind faith and urges people to rethink the way they wish to seek god.  To label PK as anti-Hindu is amateurish.

Some even stated that Aamir Khan would have been hanged if he had made a movie like PK in Pakistan or Bangladesh (the statement was wrongly attributed to the exiled Bangladeshi author, Taslima Nasreen). There is a huge flaw in the argument. Islam is declared as a state religion in these two countries, making them more-or-less theocratic states whereas India is a democratic state. It is logically not sound to compare the situation in India with the situation in these two countries, whether on the issue of religion or any other issue. We need to look at societies which are more open to differing opinions for comparison.

Aamir Khan’s statement on “increasing intolerance” was made in front of an Indian audience and Indian media, not an international audience. The fact that his statements led to so much of an uproar, with people protesting on the streets, blackening his posters, uninstalling the Snapdeal app (of which he is an ambassador), asking him to leave the country have been counter-productive. They highlight the truth in his statements! It is not his statements but our disproportional reactions which tarnish India’s image.

Aamir’s statements should have, ideally, compelled our leaders to think what triggered such statements. Rather, they chose to equate this with the statements and gestures made by an increasing number of intellectuals and artists, which have been dubbed as “manufactured dissent”. Their moves have been questioned and parallels are drawn with the reactions to the anti-Sikh riots in 1984, which were allegedly organized by the Congress party. One wrong cannot justify another. It is not that there were no reactions or protests against those riots then. It is just that with the advent of media and social media, protests today are more vocal and more visible.

It is important to have a culture of healthy debate and ideological dialogue for a country to move forward. Ideas need to clash with ideas, not bullets or oil-&-ink or protests. We need a country where we agree to disagree; where differing views can coexist without the fear of being chastised or worse, brutalized. We need a country “where the mind is without fear” and “the head is held high”. It is the responsibility of every one of us to work towards a pluralist India. The idea of Hindustan can wait.  

“I do not agree with what you have to say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it.” 

A TaleTeller's Whim

If you walked for a mile along the Main Road into the town, it lay to your left – “Muttaiah Hairdressers”, easily identified by a yellow board with the letters in red paint. It lay just before the Great Up (it was a steep road which took you down to other colonies in the town). 

The Great Up itself held a significant position in the history of this town. It was the epicenter of violence when Hindu-Muslim riots broke out in the 90’s. Local historians said similar violence took place during the Partition as well. That’s a different story altogether.

“Muttaiah Hairdressers” had been there for no less than two centuries; at least that was what Muttaiah claimed. It had been established by the first Muttaiah who came to town. Well, he didn’t set up the eight-by-eight shop that now existed, though. The shop itself was setup some sixty years ago, when Muttaiah was a kid.

I think clarifications are in order. Muttaiah was a name that passed on from generation to generation when the son took over the saloon after his father’s death. Whatever his given name was, once he entered the saloon, in presence of his father he was “Mari Muttaiah” (Little Muttaiah) and after his father’s death, he was “Muttaiah” and his son, “Mari Muttaiah”.  It was a tradition that was strictly followed.

He was the eighth Muttaiah. “Why?” somebody asked. “To protect the brand name, you see” Muttaiah said, with a sheepish grin.

Not that there existed any competition to his business. “Still, an intelligent man never takes such risks” Muttaiah propounded his own business philosophy. He never considered his work to be inferior. He looked at his work as great skill. “It is an art” he would say, wielding the razor, the scissors and the comb.  “You see, how you look for the next few days is entirely determined by the few minutes you spend in my shop. Be it your first job interview, or your first vadhupariksha, you cannot think of acing it without coming to my shop first. You may miss going to the temple, but you cannot miss coming here” Muttaiah said proudly. As a result, he had news from all over the town – who’s going where, who is dating who, what happened to whose marriage proposal. In fact, even when somebody died, news would reach Muttaiah before it reached other relatives in other parts of the town or other towns, so that he could get his instruments ready. Muttaiah never let his son go for those ceremonies when somebody died. “Someday, Mari Muttaiah. Someday after I pass away” he would say, if his son questioned him.

The shop was an eight-by-eight box. Walls on two sides were lined with mirrors. The third side had a life-sized cabinet, within which Muttaiah stored his instruments, shaving cream, brush, powder, after-shave lotions, hair dyes, massage oils and very importantly, the cash box. He had a practice of putting the day’s first collection into that box and he made sure that his son did it as well. Every year, on the day of his father’s death, he would gift clothes and food to some needy people with that money. “Mari Muttaiah, when I die, I want you to continue this practice” he had said, the first day his son came to the saloon, following Muttaiah’s father’s death.

The door had pictures of trending hairstyles Muttaiah Hairdressers aced at. The wall above the mirrors had even more interesting pictures of Muttaiah’s ancestors standing with the Divan of the province, with a couple of famous cricketers the province had produced. Muttaiah himself was in one of those photographs with a famous movie star. “What happened was, they had come for shooting in the Anjaneya Temple here. The hero had a problem with lice and wanted to shave his head. But the director – he was worried about continuity in the film. Finally, I was called. I gave the hero a nice haircut and massaged his head with a special oil that got him rid of the lice. That was when this photograph was taken” Muttaiah used to say, with pride. He would then go on telling about his experience in detail – how the set was, what the shot was, how the heroine looked without make-up, until he was done attending to the client.

There were also some old SportStar and FilmFare magazines for the clients to read up while they awaited their turn.

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Muttaiah was mixing up black dye for Military Ranganna’s hair. The bowl slipped from Muttaiah’s hand and dirtied the floor. “I am sorry” Muttaiah said, as he bent to pick up the bowl. “It’s fine, Muttaiah. Why don’t you go home and rest?” Military Ranganna suggested, placing the money in front of the mirror, as he got ready to leave.

Muttaiah locked the shop and started walking home.

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It had been nearly ten years ago. Muttaiah’s wife had died recently. Her dying wish had been to get her son married. Muttaiah spread the word that he was looking for a bride for his son and soon, several proposals came. Some were rejected because of the sub-castes. Some were rejected because of physical attributes. Finally, they agreed on Gangi.

Gangi knew how to run the household, how to dress and how to behave in social gatherings. Muttaiah was happy that he had found the ideal daughter-in-law. Within a few days, he bought a new house and gifted it to the couple. “I could have given you the house we are staying in right now and moved to a smaller settlement myself. But then, there are lots of memories I do not wish to part with” a teary eyed Muttaiah said, as he handed over the keys to the new house to his son.

Muttaiah believed that he had fulfilled the wishes of his dead wife and went about business as usual. His son assisted him in the shop, with renewed vigor. “Just see what marriage can do to young men. I remember the early days of my marriage…” Muttaiah would start narrating another anecdote from his life, as he attended to his clients, sometimes to the embarrassment of Mari Muttaiah.

Within the next year, Mari Muttaiah was blessed with a son. Muttaiah declared a holiday and distributed sweets throughout the town. He was a happy grandfather. On the eleventh day, he gifted the child a toy scissors and razor. “Wish she was here to see you too! Someday, you will grow up to be a famous hairdresser. Yes. You will join the cinema industry as a hairdresser. No. A ‘hairstylist’” Muttaiah prophesied.

Everything in Muttaiah’s life seemed perfectly set for his retirement. He started reading philosophy. Along with SportStar and FilmFare, one began to find an old, yellowed copy of the Gita or a book on Gandhi’s life and teachings. Not that he understood all of it, but he made an attempt nevertheless. He started interspersing his narratives with newfound philosophy which surprised his clients.

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Years passed. Mani, Mari Muttaiah’s son, became the centre of their lives. Gangi adored him. Which mother wouldn’t? “After Mani was born, I have lost all importance. Neither does my wife care about me nor does my father. He comes home and spends time with his grandson. I don’t know if he still remembers that he has a son” Mari Muttaiah would say, whenever any of his customers asked about his family. Though every word of it was true, he did not mind it. Wasn't Mani special for him as well?

One night, Mari Muttaiah, after closing the shop went to the local bar for his usual peg or two. “There is nothing like a hard day’s work, followed by two pegs and good food”, Mari Muttaiah would say. Two of his friends were there as well. They asked Mari Muttaiah, still in his prime, if he had heard about Chandri. Chandri was a junior movie artist who had come to town a few months ago. She was a beautiful woman and her reputation was fast spreading. Some said the Chairman was involved. Nobody knew for sure, though. 

“Come with us. We will introduce you to her. Life is not all about being a good son, a good husband and a good father. Besides, your wife is there to look after your family. Don’t neglect your family. But then, don’t neglect yourself either. Now is the time. Nobody will ever know” one of them said. But Mari Muttaiah was not convinced.  How could he cheat on Gangi, who was so devoted to him? He lit a beedi as he walked home.

Some four or five months ago, Muttaiah started hearing rumors about his son. He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, saying “My son would never do such a thing. Don’t you try and drive a wedge between him and me! If you try to spoil such a wonderful family, you will rot in hell!”

That evening, Muttaiah went to his son’s house. He wanted to talk to his son about what the people in the town thought. Such rumors always spread like wildfire. All it needs is a pack of beedis or a cup of tea or a bottle of country made arrack. It would be even easier if one specially asked to keep it a secret!

Before he could knock the door, he heard loud voices inside.

“I beg you. Please do not do this. What will the neighbors think? What will your father think? Please do not do this…” Muttaiah heard Gangi crying. He could hear his grandson crying too.

“I don’t care. Tell me where you’ve kept the money!” Mari Muttaiah shouted, as Muttaiah, outside, heard the sound of a slap. Gangi wailed loudly!

The door was open and as Muttaiah walked in, Gangi ran to him for protection. Even before he could speak, Mari Muttaiah charged out of the house.

“These days, he comes home drunk every night and beats us. He spends every single rupee earned on this addiction of his. Not just this. Recently, he has been frequenting that Chandri in the dhobi ghat. If I question him, he says “I am a man. I can go anywhere and sleep with anybody. You are nobody to ask me” and beats me further. I always thought of telling you, but I thought this news about your son might not go down well with you. I tried to hush it up. Fate had it that you would learn about it yourself” Gangi said, in between sobs.

Muttaiah waited until his son came home and gave him an earful. “Your mother is lucky. If she had been alive to see this day, she would have killed you and then killed herself. When you have such a loving wife, why do you want to visit Chandri? What does she have that our Gangi doesn’t? Swear on the soul of your dead mother that you will never visit Chandri again” Muttaiah said and made sure that his son swore, before leaving.

Drinking was fine with Muttaiah. People in his caste, why, in all other castes drank. In fact, Muttaiah had tried it as well, when he was young. His body could not get used to it and reacted. He had not tried again. After reading about Gandhi, he learnt that the great man had tried everything before abstaining from them. “You see, I was destined to become a Gandhian. That’s why I tried drinking before abstaining from it. Had I been born a few years earlier, I would have even taken part in the freedom struggle and there would be a photograph of me with the Mahatma. As fate would have it, we were never destined to meet” he used to tell his clients, with a tinge of sorrow.

Muttaiah had heard about Chandri as well, though he hadn’t seen her. She knew magic, they said. People who got to know her could not leave her company, he had heard. One day, two of his clients talked of their adventures, stifling laughs. In fact, Muttaiah also felt a secret urge to meet Chandri but his respect and love for his dead wife prevented him doing so. Besides, at his age, what would people think?! Still, he could not let her wreck his son’s family. He only hoped his son would not go back on his promise.

Mari Muttaiah stopped going to Chandri’s house. At least, nobody saw him going there these days. To Muttaiah’s relief, things seemed to be getting back under control.

One night, Gangi came running to his house. Mari Muttaiah was vomiting blood, she said. Muttaiah ran to their house. Mari Muttaiah lay there, exhausted. Beside him was a pool of blood. His son was crying, incessantly. Muttaiah was worried. Somebody deeply wanted to hurt his family. Or was it some unappeased spirit? He did not know. He knew of one person who could help him out of this troubled situation – Swamiji.

Swamiji, much like Chandri, was an outsider to the town. He stayed in the old, abandoned Vishnu temple next to the lake. The lake was on the outskirts of the town. Some said it had been part of the town hundreds of years ago. Their main argument was that nobody built a Vishnu temple on the outskirts. The duty of guarding the town gates was that of Lord Hanuman. Moreover, nobody would abandon a temple. If this had been abandoned, then it must have been because the town had shifted. A few years ago, some enthusiastic young men wrote to persuade the government to carry out historical research on the temple and the town. The government, quite obviously, did not respond to their letter. Those youths had been the centre of many discussions in Muttaiah’s shop back then. That is another story altogether.

Swamiji stayed alone in the temple. He had appeared all of a sudden at the temple one day some fifteen or twenty years ago. In the beginning, the people were suspicious. One of the country’s leading political figures had been assassinated in the recent past. What if he was one among those on the wanted list? That would put bring national importance to the town, some said. What if he was here to induct the young men of the town into their outfit? People made sure that their children did not go anywhere around the lake or the temple unaccompanied.

He would come into the town some days, for alms. Most of the days, he went back empty handed. Some sympathetic people would give him some rice, but not before making sure that nobody else was watching them!

People who went to the lake for washing could see Swamiji sitting in the mantap beside the lake, meditating or singing. He sang beautifully, those who heard him said.  However, that did not make them less wary.

All this changed when, one day, Swamiji saved the life of a kid who had accidentally fallen into the lake. That brought him closer to the people in the town. “No terrorist would save a drowning kid”, they said. Swamiji’s alms increased. Some people gathered enough courage to go and see him. Swamiji knew Sanskrit, Kannada, Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, Hindi and English. He had travelled all over the country. He sang. He knew the Vedas. He spoke on philosophy and religion. He spoke on physics. He had knowledge of astrology. He would, sometimes, meditate for weeks on end. Some said he even knew levitation. Some said he even spoke to spirits! He knew a little bit of black magic as well. Or at least, the people thought he did.

Swamiji became important to the villagers once he helped a few of them out of troubled situations. When the Chairman approached him before the elections, he had been given a copper plate with some sacred drawings on it and asked to worship it until the results were declared. The to-be Chairman did and became the Chairman. He went to the extent of offering to build an ashram for Swamiji, which Swamiji politely declined. Local rationalists & political pundits said that the opposition candidate was too weak to pose a challenge and that Swamiji had no role at all. People did not buy their arguments. Besides, Swamiji’s predictions had come true several times, strengthening their belief in him.

Swamiji gave Muttaiah a sacred thread which was to be tied to his son’s wrist. He also gave him a copper plate with some writing in Sanskrit on it. This, he said, was to be worshipped for ninety days, after which it had to be buried in the south-east corner of the backyard of their house. Muttaiah, relieved, went home to do as he was asked to.

It proved futile. A month ago, Mari Muttaiah died. Before he died, he vomited blood. It was a terrible sight. Muttaiah sat there, hopelessly, not knowing what had to be done. Gangi and her son wept uncontrollably. Neighbors gathered in their house. If Swamiji could not save him, nobody could. People stood around as Mari Muttaiah struggled to draw breath and eventually gave up his fight. For Muttaiah, it was the end of the world.

People talked of how things had turned awry ever since Mari Muttaiah stopped visiting Chandri. Chandri, who had left town a few days earlier, had gone around telling people of how Mari Muttaiah had cheated and exploited her. One of Mari Muttaiah’s neighbors said that one night, she had seen Chandri curse Mari Muttaiah’s house by throwing mud at their door and spitting on it.

It was a heart-wrenching sight to see Mari Muttaiah’s son walking ahead of the dead body, while Muttaiah brought up the rear. How he wished that he had died with his wife! He could not bear the agony of burying his own son. He performed all the ceremonies that were expected of him.

At the end of all those ceremonies, he had to shave the heads of his daughter-in-law and his grandson. That was more than what he could take. Muttaiah ran away from the town.

One of their neighbors got another barber from the nearby village to complete the ceremonies. Gangi and her son were taken to her parents’ house. People talked of Mari Muttaiah with pity. They also talked of his association with Chandri and her alleged curse in hushed tones, for they were scared of offending his spirit which they believed still lurked around the saloon and his house.

Muttaiah returned a fortnight later. For another week, he stayed locked up in his son’s house. People said they heard Muttaiah reading out the Gita loudly, late into the night.

                               ********************************************** 


Muttaiah visited his daughter-in-law and grandson before reopening the shop. “It was not in our hands to control what happened. All this is part of destiny. We should learn to accept joy and sorrow, success and failure with equanimity. This is the essence of the Gita. Let us perform the role that we have been assigned. Leave all expectations. The results are in His hands. What are we, but mere puppets” Muttaiah said, before he left.

Some said they saw a glint of madness in his eyes, which miraculously left the minute his hands touched the scissors and the comb. Some even said that he would call out to Mari Muttaiah sometimes, before realizing that he was no longer in the shop, attending to other clients. He still continued to narrate anecdotes to his clients as he attended to them.

When he opened the cabinet to take the powder or the shaving cream, one could see there were two boxes now. 

The Choice

Ajay was busy these days. Inquivesta, IISER-K’s fest was just a few days away. He held a key position in organizing the fest. There was a lot of pressure and responsibility on him. He was determined to give it his best shot. There were a lot of odds to fight against – location of the institute, popularity, lack of confidence within the institute, infighting – the list was endless.  He made himself a promise – to keep his professional and personal lives in separate compartments. He knew that this would strain the already tense relationship between him and Aditi. Yet, a decision had to be made. He made the decision. 

For the past several days, he hadn't even talked to Aditi. He hadn't explained it to her. He only hoped she would understand. Would she?

                               ******************************************************

Ajay was trying to list out points for the meeting with the Dean later that day. Things were moving very slowly. Time was against them. Crucial decisions had to be taken at the meeting. The innings had reached the death-overs.

Ajay’s phone started buzzing. The phone displayed a number, not a name. He wanted to ignore the call.
What if it was some company that had called with an offer for sponsoring the fest?! No. He couldn't miss it. He answered the call.

“Hello! Am I speaking to Ajay?” said a sweet voice over the phone.

It was usually ladies with sweet voices who were put to handle these PR operations. Ajay had learnt this much already. Yet, this voice sounded familiar. Or was it because he had received too many calls like this? He couldn't tell.

“Yes. This is Ajay here” he replied.

“Hey, Ajay! This is Anu….” There was a pause. Ajay did not realize how long the pause was.

                                ******************************************************

It was around four years ago.

Ajay had just entered 1^st P.U. or Class XI. It was a new environment altogether. New friends, new found freedom and raging hormones!

It was during one of the lectures on the first day that Ajay noticed Anu. She was sitting there, talking to her newly found friends, at the top of her voice and laughing gaily. ‘An old trick to attract attention and establish oneself in a new social setting’ Ajay thought. Nevertheless, she succeeded in grabbing Ajay’s attention, if not that of her group!

During lunch that day, Ajay decided to try his luck. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere, earlier?” he asked Anu, trying the oldest trick in the book. Their eyes met.

“I don’t think so. Yet, I am sure that we will be seeing a lot of each other in the future” Anu said, with a wink!

That was the first time Ajay had “felt” for a girl. No. Aditi did not know about this episode of his life. She had never asked and he had not bothered to tell. Similarly, he hadn't tried to dig deep into her history.

Anu and Ajay became very good friends in a very short span of time. They were both brilliant orators and made a formidable team. They played leading man and leading lady in one of the productions by the theatre group in college. Others could see sparks flying between them. They sensed it too. They knew that what they shared was more than just friendship. Yet, neither was ready to acknowledge the fact. Or were they waiting for the other person to take the first step?

Two eventful years passed. Ajay and Anu were talked about by the entire college – for their talent and a lot of other reasons. There were times when Ajay thought that he better tell Anu what he felt. Then again, he felt that would ruin their chemistry. “It is not just one thought that runs through a guy’s mind when he wants to take such a crucial step! Damn those movies which show college love stories to be so simple” Ajay thought, frustrated.

At the end of two years, there came another important decision to be taken. Ajay had to decide whether he would choose IISER-K over an engineering college in the city or otherwise. He decided to go to IISER-K. “Well, at least this decision wasn't that hard” he thought, as he prepared himself to enter into a new realm again.

On the night before departing to Kolkata, a few of Ajay’s friends came to see him off. He decided to call up those who did not turn up. After calling everyone, he called Anu.

“Hey, Ajay! Sorry I wasn’t able to come today. I hope you are all set. I just wish you make it big wherever you go. My wishes will always be with you. And, do keep in touch. I don’t want to lose such a brilliant friend” Anu said, evidently fighting tears. Her voice gave her away. 

Ajay paused.

“Is there anything that you wish to tell me, Anu?” Ajay asked, knowing that this would probably be the last chance.

“Nothing at all. Wish you the very best, Ajay. That is all I want to say. Oh! You might want to get up early tomorrow. I won’t hold you up for long. Goodnight!” Anu said, before hanging up.

Ajay went to bed, trying hard not to think of the conversation that had taken place just then.

Ajay expectantly checked his inbox before switching his smartphone off for boarding the flight, with his parents. There was nothing. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. He hadn't been able to sleep well the previous night.

When he switched on his phone after landing, there was a message from Anu.

“Ajay, I wasn't able to tell you for the past two years. The truth is that I really do love you. I was always scared that this might come in the way of our friendship.
Best of luck!”

Tears welled up in Ajay’s eyes. He couldn't cry, not in front of his parents, specially.

With a heavy heart, Ajay entered into his life in IISER-Kolkata.

                                ******************************************************

These memories ran like a movie in Ajay’s head.

“Oh! Hey, Anu! After such a long time! How are you?” Ajay asked. He couldn't understand what it was exactly that he felt at that moment.

“I am fine, Ajay. I just called to say that my dad has been posted to Singapore on work, after promotion. So, we are relocating. I just wanted to tell you before leaving. How could I leave without letting an old “friend” know?” Anu said, desperately trying to make light of things.

It pricked Ajay.

“Ajay, is there anything you wish to tell me?” Anu asked, knowing that this might well be the last chance.

Another pause….

Ajay’s heart and mind raced. There had been Anu. Then, there was Aditi. Now, Anu had called. A decision had to be made.

“No, Anu. Absolutely nothing. Except that my wishes will always be with you. I hope you make it big wherever you go. And do keep in touch. I do not want to lose such a brilliant friend” Ajay said, maintaining equilibrium in his voice.

“Goodbye, then, Ajay” she said, before hanging up.

“Goodbye, Anu” Ajay said.

A tear fell on the screen of his phone. He wiped it clean and deleted the call log.

There was another ring.

“Yes, ma’am. I shall be in your office in 15 minutes” he said. It was the Dean. 

A Tailor's Tale

Vishwa left town wanting to explore the world. Before leaving, he asked me if I would join him. I was excited at the prospect and suggested it at home. The very first reaction was that of shock. What met me a few moments later was a barrage of the choicest of abuses - meant for me and Vishwa as well, for being a bad influence on me! I should probably not have acted impulsively, knowing what my family is like.

A few months passed. One day, Ramu's assistant Mani came home and said that Vishwa was back. That was all I needed to escape from the self-imposed house arrest. I left at once.

Vishwa had changed quite a bit. He wore a khadi kurta instead of a t-shirt he usually sported. He sat at Ramu's, with a tea-glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Now, that was a change. Vishwa never smoked earlier. "Hello! You don't seem to have changed after all these months, except for having grown fatter. Your mother should have been pleased seeing you at home all the time. Poor lady!" Vishwa said, his laugh interrupted by bouts of cough.
"Where did you take up this?" I asked, offended by his smoking as well as his remarks.
"Well, this is a gift from our friends in the north. Oh, this is nothing. At some places, I even tried the chillum, but couldn't stand that. My body isn't made for that. But this..." he said, pointing to the cigarette, "...is bliss! It opens your mind. You should try it too". Vishwa offered me his cigarette.
"You have changed, Vishwa" I said, hurt.

We sat there, without talking for a few minutes. Vishwa finished his cigarette and said, "Come with me. Let's go to Siddoji." I followed him, mutely, not wishing to talk.
On our way, Vishwa broke the silence. "I'm sorry! I must have realised that the places and people have changed. I spent the last few months with very rough people. It took me time to realise that I was back with my people and don't need to put on a mask of aggressiveness and offensiveness all the time. I am really sorry" he said, patting me on the back.
It felt better to have Vishwa by my side again.

Siddoji was in his shop, under the big peepul tree in front of the Shani temple. His shop, if you could call it one, was there since my grandfather's time. Siddoji's father and grandfather had been tailors too. My father never bought any ready-made clothes. "What do those factory fellows know about my fitting and choice? I am an independent man. I make my choices" he used to say, every time before coming to Siddoji for getting his shirts and pants stitched.
The shop is a landmark in the town. You can be sure that you will bump into somebody you know at Siddoji's. His "shop" is made of a wooden plank which serves as a roof & palm leaves forming the walls. He has a tailoring machine that looks ancient, a legacy that has been passed on from generation to generation. Not that Siddoji does badly in business. He simply does not want to shift into a proper building. "It does not give a homely feeling like this place" he says. With his earnings, he educated his son and two daughters well and had married off his daughters grandly. Siddoji, now 65, is a man with a fierce spirit of independence. He still works rather than retiring and staying at home.

It had been  a few months since I last visited Siddoji.

However, that day, Siddoji was not working. The constant whirring of the tailoring machine was not to be heard. He sat there looking blankly into space. He had not shaved for the past few days. This was not the usual Siddoji. "Siddoji...Siddoji..." I said and shook him to bring him out of his reverie.
"How are you Siddoji? I haven't seen you in months. Listen, I want a few kurtas stitched. I have decided to give up wearing shirts and t-shirts. Khadi! Yes. Kurtas are the new thing" Vishwa said, excited at his plan of image makeover.

Siddoji sat there, expressionless. "What happened, Siddoji?" I asked. Siddoji held my hand and started crying. I stood there, not knowing what to do. Vishwa offered him a bottle of water and calmed him down. Siddoji drank it and motioned for us to sit down on the benches put up in the shop. "Can you spare me sometime? Will you listen to what I have to say?" Siddoji asked, with a plea in his eyes. Vishwa and I sat down.

Siddoji began. "You know that my son was married a few months ago. Even you had come to the marriage, if you remember. I was the happiest man then. Both my daughters were married. My son had a good job and was married. That was all I needed in life, to retire happily. Yet, I chose to continue with my work. Everything was picture perfect, until around three months ago.
One morning, we got up to find that our daughter-in-law had eloped! There was a note which said 'I am disappointed with this marriage. Don't try to look for me.' We tried to keep things under wraps and contacted her parents. Even they were shocked and decided to lodge a police complaint, despite our requests. But then, the police complaint helped. She was traced in two days, with her former boyfriend. Any other in-laws would have thrashed her. However, we feared that it would only aggravate the situation and respectfully brought her home.
On coming back, in the presence of her parents, we asked her why she had taken the extreme step.
What she did shocked us. She pulled my son out of the room by his hair. Yet, my son stood there like an impotent! "Why are you standing without saying a word? Aren't you a man? Doesn't your blood boil when your wife pulls you by hair and humiliates you in front of your parents and in-laws? Speak up, you bastard!" I said, slapping him hard. Even this did not bring forth any reaction.
"This is precisely why I left him. He is not man enough! He is impotent! It's not just him. Even you people cheated me. Why did you have to marry him when he is useless?!" our daugther-in-law said, venting out her frustration. I couldn't say she was at fault. It was our mistake. Even we didn't know it, though. We apologized to her and her family. We returned the money we had received as dowry and all other gifts we had received and sent her back to her family.
The next morning, I found a letter in my son's bed.

'Dear Mom & Dad,
I know I have been a big failure in life. I am a disappointment to everybody around me. I am a disgrace to the family. I don't want to cause any further discomfort. I shall go away. Do not try to look for me. It will prove futile.
Your Loving Son'

I immediately lodged a police complaint. My wife found it hard to come to terms with the fact that our son had left us. She took to bed within a couple of days, never to get up again. She died within a week. There is a saying in Sanskrit - "Putra shokam nirantaram". It consumed my wife.
Three days later, a policeman knocked on our door, bringing information that my son's body had been found near the railway lines.

It is two months today since my son died. I feel guilty of having murdered him. Had I not slapped him, he would have still lived. Through him, my wife would have still survived. But then, if I had not accepted the reality and argued against it, it would have cast a question on my daughter-in-law's character. Would she have been able to survive with that? Wouldn't I, then, have been responsible for spoiling a young girl's life and probably killing her? I would still have been a murderer."
Siddoji sat silently for a while. The whirring of the machine brought me back to my senses. Vishwa sat there, smoking, looking at the distant sky, lost in thought.

"Now that I have told you, I feel much better. People ask me why I still continue to sit here, stitching, than simply staying home. I cannot stay at home. The images of my wife and son will haunt me there. The guilt will prick me. Nothing of that here. The whirring of this machine reminds me of my duty and keeps unhappy memories away. I meet people and that gives me the will to live; the will to move on. Now, Vishwa, if you could please stand, I will take the measurements..." Siddoji said as he opened his notebook and took the tape.